Rheinhardt looked at his daughters again and was overwhelmed by a force of emotion that made his breath catch. It was not comparable to the comfortable affection he felt for his wife, the companion-ate closeness that had mellowed and matured over the years. No—it was something quite different. A raw, primitive emotion—a violent, visceral, instinctive attachment combined with a desire to protect, whatever the cost. And yet, at the same time, it was remarkably satisfying and joyful. It defied description, was characterized by contradictions.
The music had recovered the tonic major key, and the principal subject was being recapitulated. The inspector counted his blessings and raised the police journal to conceal his watering eyes and the peculiar shame associated with the expression of uncontrollable, improvident love.
16
LIEBERMANN AND HIS FRIEND Dr. Stefan Kanner were seated in a private windowless dining room. The food they had eaten was traditional fare, simply prepared but deeply satisfying: semolina dump lings in beef broth, Tyrolean knuckle of veal with rice, and schmalzstrauhen—spirals of sweet batter, fried until golden brown, and sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. A few schmalzstrauhen remained, untouched and quite cold, on a metal rack. The wine was unusually good: a local red, the color of garnet, redolent of bonfires, plums, and raspberries. Bleary-eyed, flushed—neckties draped over their shoulders—and gloriously drunk, the two men conversed under an awning of cigar smoke.
“It was a beautiful day,” said Kanner, tracing a flamboyant arc with his hand to evoke the cloudless empyrean. “Jeanette and I drove out to Döbling and had dinner, alfresco… and the following Sunday we went across the Kahlenberg to Klosterneuburg. On our way home, in the railway compartment, her head fell on my shoulder— and she said that she loved me.”
Kanner pushed the box of cigars into the middle of the table, and encouraged Liebermann to take another.
“Go on—help yourself. They're Havanas. A gift from a grateful patient—well, her husband, actually—whom I cured of a zoöpsia accompanied by gastric pains.”
“What animals did she hallucinate?”
“Only one: a dancing bear.”
“And how did you treat her?”
“Maxim. Just take a cigar and let me finish my story will you?”
Liebermann muttered an apology and signaled that his friend should proceed.
“Still under the benign influence of the sweet vin de paille from the cloister cellar,” said Kanner, “I was quite ready to believe her. My customary skepticism vanished, and when our lips met, I was Kanner s eyes rolled upward. “Transported. The following day, however, my skepticism returned—”
“Which is just as well,” Liebermann interjected.
Kanner thrust out his lower lip and blinked at his friend.
“Have I told you this story before?”
“No.”
Kanner shrugged and continued. “I spent the afternoon in Café Landtmann… and when the streetlights came on, I went for a stroll in the Rathauspark. It was quite dark—but I'm sure it was her.”
“Jeanette?”
“In the arms of Spitzer.”
“The throat specialist?”
“The very same.”
Liebermann threw his head back and directed a jet of smoke at the ceiling. The gaslight flared and made a curious respiratory sound— like a gasp.
“So, she wants to be an actress.”
Kanner sat up straight—surprised.
“How did you know that?”
“Throat specialists always have a large number of famous actors and singers among their patients. They are frequently invited to first nights, gala performances, and other glamorous occasions. Among the medical specialities, throat specialists are by far the most well connected with respect to the arts. Subsequently, they are common prey to a particular type of young woman: pretty, intelligent, coquettish, of slender means, and with theatrical ambitions.”
“Jeanette.”
“Quoi erat demonstrandum.”
“Yes,” said Kanner. “You know, for a psychiatrist, I can be a remarkably poor judge of character.” Kanner stared glumly into the ruby bowl of his wineglass before adding: “Shame about old Professor von Krafft-Ebing.”
In his inebriated state, Liebermann accepted the sudden change of subject as though it were entirely logical.
“Yes, he will be sadly missed.”
“I used to enjoy his public lectures.”
“They were very entertaining,” said Liebermann, “but I always found them weak, theoretically.”
Kanner shrugged again. “People will be reading his Psychopathia Sexualis for centuries. What a collection of cases! And what a fine eye for detail! Do you have a favorite? I have always been rather fond of case fifty, Herr Z., the technologist who was only satisfied by women wearing high heels and short jackets, Hungarian fashion.”
Liebermann shook his head. “That one escapes me.…”
“He was particularly partial to ladies’ calves,” Kanner continued, “but only when the ladies concerned wore elegant shoes. Nude legs—or nudity in general—did not arouse his interest. I was always amused by Krafft-Ebing's somewhat irregular inclusion of the fact that Herr Z. had a weakness for cats—and that simply looking at a cat could lift him from the deepest depression.”
Kanner raised his bloodshot eyes. He scratched his head, leaving a tuft of oiled hair standing on end.
“I too,” he said in a distant, somewhat bewildered voice, “am partial to women in short jackets… and to be perfectly honest, my spirits have often been lifted by the antics of a cat.”
“Well, Stefan,” said Liebermann, “perhaps you would benefit from one of the late professor's cures. I would be happy to prescribe regular cold baths and monobromide of camphor, if you wish?”
Kanner made a dismissive gesture.
“Baths are ineffective. When I was a student, I spent a summer in Bad Ischl, where I allowed a retired opera singer to believe she was seducing me. She frequently took a beauty treatment that involved immersion in a tub filled with crushed ice; however, this had no effect on her libido whatsoever. Her sensual appetite was just as keen whether she had had the treatment or not.” Kanner swayed in
